


Brands of Healing

by Leavingslowly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leavingslowly/pseuds/Leavingslowly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is sick, and Athos is a (somewhat) unwilling nursemaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brands of Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prompt fill for the Musketeers Kink Meme, requesting sick Aramis denying he's sick and then having one of the other musketeers put him to bed and nurse him back to health. Warnings: Excessive fluff and lack of plot. Set sometime in the first season (in my head). Also, I don't own anything and am just amusing myself!

Over the course of several years together the thing Athos recognizes about Aramis is that he rarely shuts up. He whines when he does not like something, flirts recklessly and relentlessly with any half-decent looking woman, and never misses a chance to make an irreverent comment at an inopportune moment. Athos has therefore learned to be concerned when Aramis falls quiet, as he is now.

They’re standing in the courtyard of the garrison listening to Treville discuss orders for the day, and Athos is busy trying to clear his aching mind of the haze that’s leftover from too much wine, as per usual. It’s been raining all morning, doing nothing to improve his mood.  Cold water drips off the brim of his hat and down the back of his neck, and he finds himself shivering like a lady in a petticoat.

He’s debating whether or not he ought disturb Treville’s morning droning by shaking the water off himself, and why Aramis has been so suspiciously quiet about what is surely shaping up to be a miserable patrol, when a muffled sneeze near his shoulder distracts him.

 _Of course_ , he thinks.  He turn his gaze to his comrade, who is standing beside him with his eyes squeezed shut and a gloved hand against his nose.  He watches as Aramis sneezes again, louder this time, and bumps against Athos’s shoulder in the process.

“Bless you.”  D’Artagnan and Porthos say in unison, and Treville pauses to glare at them. 

Athos, however, rolls his eyes and pointedly shifts so there is more space between himself and his sniffling comrade. “Please do keep your plague to yourself,” he mutters. 

In response, Aramis steps closer to Athos until they are shoulder to shoulder once again.  Athos doesn’t move away, although he inwardly cringes when the other man continues to sniffle quietly beside him.  He just knows that somehow this is going to be his problem.

Sure enough, barely a few minutes have passed before Aramis lets out another sneeze, bumping up against Athos once more and raising Treville’s suspicions this time.

“Are you feeling unwell, Aramis?” Treville demands, stepping forward and looking the Musketeer up and down.

Aramis straightens slightly at Treville’s examination and manages a smile, although the effect is mostly ruined by the way he quickly swipes his hand under his nose.  “Perfectly fine, sir. ‘Tis but a minor chill.”

“Are you sure about that? You’ve been sneezing all morning.” D’Artagnan points out, earning an immediate glower from Aramis. 

“Inconsequential.” Aramis huffs. “Although, one of you could show a little sympathy for my plight and lend me a handkerchief. I do seem to have forgotten mine.” He turns beseeching eyes upon his friends.

Athos shakes his head. “Absolutely not!” he says, not only because he can, but also because it’s so like Aramis to be unprepared to take care of himself.

Treville sighs and takes a step back, waving his arm towards their living quarters. “You are dismissed for the day, Aramis. Athos will escort you back to your room and ensure you _stay there_.”

It’s Athos’s turn to glower, but he knows better than to argue. Instead, he grabs Aramis by the arm and starts dragging him away, the other man practically stumbling to keep up. The sooner he gets Aramis settled, the sooner he can be done with playing nursemaid.

He takes Aramis all the way to his room in silence, pausing only to let him stop to sneeze yet again on their way up the stairs.  Once in the room, he kicks the door shut and points towards the pallet and pile of blankets in the corner of the room, ignoring the way Aramis sniffles and swipes at his nose with the cuff of his sleeve like a snotty-nosed child. 

“Take your wet clothes off and get into bed, you daft man.”  Athos orders.  Fairly certain Aramis will comply, Athos turns and busies himself with stoking a fire in the small hearth in the corner of the room to ward off the damp chill that hangs in the air.  Behind him, he can hear Aramis start divesting himself of his wet clothing, muttering to himself.

“Your bedside manner could use some work, my friend.” Aramis declares. “Y-you-” he cuts himself off suddenly with loud sneeze, and Athos looks over his shoulder to see watery brown eyes staring balefully at him as if to prove their point.

Athos will not be swayed.  “You know that I hate taking care of sick people.”

Aramis starts to roll his eyes at that comment, but is forced to pause to catch a second sneeze against his elbow, sniffling into his sleeve in the process.  

Athos sighs at the sight of such etiquette.  “For the love God, stop making that infernal sound and blow your nose,” he orders. He stands and holds out the handkerchief he’d refused to provide earlier. Aramis bends over with the force of a third sneeze, and then sheepishly reaches out for the proffered cloth.

Athos is certain he’s never heard anyone sneeze this much in such a short period of time, and can’t help but ask.  “Where on earth did you even catch this affliction?”

At that, Aramis smirks and blows his nose pointedly and loudly before replying. “She was lovely and it was worth it.” he declares. 

Ah, of course.  For reasons he will not think about, it makes Athos feel a little better to see Aramis behaving unapologetically for his amorous ways. He leaves his friend to bask in his gloriously earned illness and finish undressing, and sets to getting the fire going. 

Several minutes later he’s pleased with the warmth that is finally spreading out from the hearth and stands up to face Aramis, who has gone relatively quiet again behind him.  Frowning, he sees that the other man is now standing mostly undressed in the middle of the room and not moving. 

For just a second, Aramis seems like he’s forgotten why he’s standing there and Athos feels a shiver of concern crawl up his spine.  “Get into bed.”

At the sound of Athos’s voice, whatever mist had come across Aramis’s mind clears and he quirks a dark eyebrow.  “My, my, Athos. You’re in quite the hurry to get me into bed.”

“Oh, do be quiet.  I can see you shivering from here.” Athos replies.  “Get into the bed before your teeth start to rattle.”

Aramis still has a grin on his face as he throws himself onto his bed, shifting around until he’s buried under all of his blankets.  Despite his apparent amusement, Aramis looks relieved to be laying down and visibly relaxes as Athos comes over to touch the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” Athos asks. Aramis doesn’t feel particularly feverish and isn’t in danger by any means, but he is still making that damnable sniffling noise every few seconds.

Aramis wipes at his nose with Athos’s handkerchief and shakes his head. “I make things interesting, my friend, not difficult.”

Athos refrains from replying and pulls the blankets up higher over the other man. Aramis immediately snuggles into them like a child and closes his eyes, handkerchief still clutched in his fist.  Athos places a hand on his back, willing him to be silent and go to sleep.

Beneath his palm, he can feel the easy rise and fall of Aramis’s breath, despite the congestion that appears to be affecting him.  A clap of thunder rings out, and rain beats at the window. Athos thinks of Porthos and D’Artagnan standing outside, listening to Treville droning on, and acknowledges that perhaps being inside isn’t so awful.  Except for the fact that he is, of course, taking care of a sick person.

 

**********

 

Athos finds it utterly amazing how awful Aramis is at taking care of himself, especially given how well he manages to take care of others when they are ill or injured. Despite Treville’s orders, Athos barely managed to keep the man in his room for a day, after which Aramis reappeared for duty as if absolutely nothing was the matter, despite the sneezing and sniffling still afflicting him. 

Now, however, it’s the persistent coughing that’s driving Athos crazy. He tries to think back to when it began, and is fairly certain it’s well over a day.   He’d been too hung over that morning to participate in pleasantries at breakfast, but he could distinctly recall Porthos forcing Aramis to drink some kind of tea at and Aramis complaining about it. 

Whatever was in the tea doesn’t seem to have helped, Athos notes, as he watches Aramis appear to try to hack up a lung on the back of his horse as they’re stopped just outside the garrison courtyard.  The grating sound of it puts a scowl on Athos’s face, and earns twin frowns from Porthos and D’Artagnan.  Athos barely restrains himself as he watches the horse dancing skittishly under Aramis due to the commotion, with the man going back and forth between covering his mouth and trying to sooth his mount.

“Oi, when are you going to give it up already and admit you’re ill?” Porthos asks, shaking his head.

Aramis manages to get a hold of himself and shakes his head.  “It’s just a cough, my friend.”

“I would beg to differ.” Athos states, ignoring the glare Aramis sends his way as he dismounts. “I think you ought to return to your bed until you’re well enough to ride your horse without falling over.” he says.

Aramis wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.  “I’m not falling over!” he retorts, but it’s quite obvious that his heart isn’t in the argument.  He stifles another cough into his fist, and even in the waning daylight, Athos can see the slight flush of fever across the other man’s cheeks.

“You are an idiot with no sense of self-preservation.” Athos declares. Porthos and D’Artangan are fairly silent on the matter, although he hears Porthos grunt in agreement behind him.

“You wound me, Athos.” Aramis rasps, trying and failing to clear his throat. Somehow, he manages to look relieved, contrite and irritated all at the same time as he dismounts his horse.

Athos glowers and points his comrade in the direction of his living quarters. “Go. I will be telling Treville you are relieved of duty and checking on you every hour, and you had better be resting each time I arrive or I shall have Porthos tie you up.”

Athos means every word of it, but it turns out to be a rather useless threat, as he thought it might. When he goes to check on Aramis an hour later as promised, he finds him passed out on his bed and so deeply asleep that he doesn’t wake even when Athos pulls the blankets from underneath him to cover him against the chill in the air.

A second check another hour later reveals Aramis to still be sound asleep, a pot of untouched tea on the table, which Athos assumes must be from Porthos.

At his third check-in several hours later, Athos manages to wake him long enough to force him to drink some of the tea.  He stokes the fire when it becomes apparent that Aramis isn’t moving any time soon, and then lets him return to his slumber once more.

It’s well after dark when Athos returns for a fourth time with a bowl of broth from Serge in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. 

At first, Aramis refuses to get up, but eventually he coughs himself awake. Aramis has seemingly embraced his illness and grumbles and groans as he gets up and drags himself to sit in front of the fire, wrapped in one of his blankets, to drink the broth Athos has brought. He tries to beg for some wine as well, but Athos refuses to hand it over and instead offers him the tea that’s been reheated over the hearth.

“No wine. Drink this.  It’s good for ill individuals such as yourself.” Athos says.  He knows he’s rubbing it in a bit, but just because he’s playing nursemaid doesn’t mean he has to be nice about it.

Aramis seems to read his mind as he grudgingly sips the tea.  “You are the worst nursemaid I could imagine. You’re supposed to mop my fevered brow and do my bidding.”

“Ridiculous. Nursemaids don’t have to do anyone’s bidding.” Athos responds. “If you had rested when I told you to several days ago perhaps you would not feel so terrible.”

Aramis coughs and shakes his head.  “Not fair. I didn’t feel this awful before.”

Athos decides to accept the statement as truth.  “Nevertheless, here we are.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Aramis lets out a congested sigh. “Perhaps you should leave, lest I make you ill as well.  Treville doesn’t need both of us off duty.”

“Nonsense, I never get ill.”  Athos says, smirking at the dour look he earns.  It’s a true statement, though.  Athos can’t remember the last time he was sick, save for the frequent overindulgence in his wine. 

He leans back in his chair and points towards the bed.  “Drink your tea and then return to bed.  I’m not going anywhere.”

 

**********

 

At first Athos isn’t sure what’s woken him and he stares blankly into the darkness, confused as to why he’s in a chair.   Then he hears stifled coughing from across the room and remembers. _Aramis_. He’d sat down to finish his bottle of wine while the other man slept and must have fallen asleep himself. 

Moving quickly, he gets to his feet and fumbles around for the candle that was on the table and lights it.  In the dim glow that spreads outwards he can see that Aramis has buried his face in his pillow to try to muffle the sound of his coughs.

“Please don’t choke yourself on my account.” Athos begs, and strides over to grasp Aramis by the arm. He hauls him upright and smacks him between the shoulder blades when he continues to cough – a harsh, wet sound that brings back that shivery feeling of alarm that Athos first felt when this whole illness began.

At the second smack, Aramis lets out a hoarse yelp between coughs and tries to shake him off. “What-” _cough_ -”are you hitting me for?” he demands, finally seeming to getting some semblance of control over himself.

“I’m helping you clear your lungs?”  Athos asks, half in question and half as a statement of fact.

Aramis levels him with a bleary, watery-eyed glare.  “Thank you, but that’s for pneumonia, which I do not have.”

Athos rolls his eyes.  “It certainly sounds as if you do.”

“You’re a terrible nursemaid.” Aramis grumbles.

“You’re a terrible patient.”  Athos responds.

Aramis looks like he wants to say something else, but instead is forced to turn his head away from Athos to catch a rather inopportune sneeze against his shoulder.

“My point exactly.” Athos states, feeling as if he’s won some kind of victory, although he’s not sure what exactly it is. 

In response Aramis simply sniffles and fumbles around under the covers for a moment, somehow managing to produce the handkerchief Athos had given him earlier. Athos can’t help but cringe as Aramis blows his nose into it, making a mental note that if the other man were to ever return the defiled piece of cloth he will not accept it.

“God . . . I feel terrible.” Aramis complains once he’s finished. He sniffles miserably and collapses back down in the bed, curling into a ball on his side and staring balefully at Athos.  “Shoot me?”

Athos manages the barest hint of smile and shakes his head.  “No, I don’t think so.  What else can I do besides put a bullet in you?”

Aramis shrugs his shoulders and closes his eyes. “Nothing. S’got to run its course.” he replies tiredly.

Athos can see that Aramis is shivering, though, shoulders trembling beneath his blankets.  He places a palm over the man’s forehead and immediately notes the feverish warmth against his hand, but he’s not certain what to do about it. He debates asking, but Aramis looks ready to fall asleep again, face buried in his pillow once more.

Instead, Athos decides to do the obvious thing, and searches the room for a relatively clean cloth and a basin, which he fills with water before returning to the bed with both items in hand.

“Can you turn over for me?” he asks. With his eyes still closed, Aramis gives a slight nod and rolls onto his back. He grumbles as Athos lightly shoves him sideways and sits down on the edge of the bed.

At first Aramis scrunches his nose at the feel of the damp cloth against his face, but it doesn’t take very long for him to relax against Athos’s thigh, face smoothing out into a more relaxed countenance.  

“Mmm . . . this s’better nursemaiding, Athos.” he mumbles.

“Be quiet.” Athos says, but there’s no real heat in the order. Instead, he continues to bathe Aramis’s face and neck with the damp cloth until the other man goes completely limp in sleep.

Athos knows he could go back to his rooms, but the truth is Aramis’s illness has left him unsettled.  Instead, he folds the cloth and leaves it against the other musketeer’s forehead, hoping to draw out some of the feverish warmth from his skin, and leans back against the stone wall at his back.  With a sigh he closes his own eyes.

He intends only to sit there long enough to tend to Aramis’s fever, but the bottle of wine he drank earlier is still thrumming its way through his veins, and Athos barely feels it as the alcohol tugs him into slumber.  He finds himself drifting, half-asleep, to the sound of Aramis’s soft, congested snoring filling his ears. 

It’s a short-lived rest, though.  As the night wears on Aramis’s fever rises until he’s tossing and turning, his discomfort manifesting into a twitching restlessness that has Athos jerking awake as the other man rolls sideways into him and kicks him in the leg.   When Athos feels his forehead this time, it’s hot to the touch and Aramis squirms beneath his hand, face creased in discomfort.

Athos isn’t sure what to do, so he lays his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “Be still,” he says.

He’s not surprised, however, to find that it’s a useless gesture on his part. It doesn’t take Athos long to give up trying to keep his friend relaxed and covered, and instead lets him sprawl over the mattress however he pleases.

The fever and the restlessness make Athos just as uncomfortable as Aramis, and he stands up and begins pacing, pondering what he should do. He’s skirting into true nursemaid territory now and he doesn’t like it. 

He debates going to get Porthos, but he’s afraid he’ll returned to find Aramis has hauled himself out of his sick bed like some sort of deranged invalid.  He also debates getting Treville and calling a physician, but it’s not yet dawn and no one will charge a reasonable rate for a house call in the middle of the night.

Instead, he settles for encouraging Aramis to roll onto his back so that he can bathe his forehead again with the water still left in the basin. He wets and rewets the cloth several times, but Aramis doesn’t seem to appreciate the gesture as he did earlier and tries repeatedly to fling it off.

At the third such attempt, Athos grabs his wrist at the last moment and Aramis’s eyes flick open to stare blankly up at him.  “Too cold.” he mumbles, shaking his head.   

“It’s just your fever, my friend.”  Athos isn’t used to soothing anyone, but he lets his fingers thread through the other man’s dark curls and tries to keep his voice low and calm.

“No. S’cold. The snow -- “Aramis breaks off into a hacking cough, unable to finish his sentence, but Athos knows what’s happening then and immediately puts his hands on his shoulders.  He’s acutely aware of the heat of Aramis’s fever and the trembling of his muscles beneath his palms.

Aramis has closed his eyes again, but they slit open to stare at him as Athos shakes him hard.  “This is not Savoy.” Athos says.  “You are ill, nothing more.”

In response, Aramis groans out something unintelligible and tries to fling himself off the bed.  He fights Athos as he drags him into a sitting position against his chest, arms wrapped around him to hold him still.  It’s awkward, holding on to another man like this, but he’s not sure how else to get through to the other man.  

“Aramis, wake up!”  Athos gives his friend a hard shake, followed by a slap on the cheek.

Finally, and rather suddenly, Aramis goes still against him and his eyes flick open again, looking at Athos in confusion.  “Marsac?”

“No, it’s Athos.  You’re here in your room at the garrison, Aramis.”

Aramis still has a confused look on his face and seems to want to say something, but whatever it is gets lost in a sudden fit of violent coughing that has Athos bending the other man over his arm to try to help him breathe. He remembers Aramis’s reprimand from earlier, and fights the urge to the pound him on the back.

The coughing doesn’t last long, but when it’s over Aramis is lying sprawled on Athos’s legs, red-faced and breathless.  He manages to squint his eyes open and looks up at Athos.  “W-why am I in your lap?” he croaks out.

Athos smiles sardonically.  “I’m mopping your fevered brow.”  He raises a hand to push Aramis’s wild curls out of the way and lay his palm against his hot forehead.

“Mmm.” Aramis nods, his eyes slipping closed once more. 

“You’re burning up.  What should I do?” Athos asks.

There’s no response, and Athos shakes the man in his lap lightly. Aramis’s only response is to groan in protest and press his face more firmly against Athos’s leg with a sleepy cough.

Athos sighs and hefts the other man off him, depositing him on his back in the bed once again.  Aramis seems only barely aware of what’s happening, and doesn’t move as Athos strips him of his shirt and returns to trying to soothe his fever with the damp cloth.

He’s not sure how long they stay like this, Aramis in a feverish daze and Athos with a wet cloth in his hand, but gradually light begins to filter into the room between the slats in the window shutters.  He notes that Aramis has been still for quite some time, his breathing even, if not slightly congested, and figures he’s done enough if the other man is resting comfortably at last.

Athos pulls the blankets from the foot of the bed up over Aramis’s back and pats him on the shoulder.  He’s surprised and relieved to see Aramis’s eyes drift open at the gesture.  He blinks several times, as if trying to get his bearings, before lifting his head slightly.

“Athos?”

“I’m here.” Athos says. 

Aramis sighs, coughs, and lets his head flop back down, eyes shutting again. “What’s goin’ on?”

“You’ve been quite feverish. I’ve been your nursemaid.” Athos responds, and feels something in his chest unclench at the slight smile that graces Aramis’s lips at the statement.

“Knew you could do it.” Aramis mumbles, and shifts around until he’s on his stomach and burrowed deeply into his blankets.

“You should know that I’m fetching a physician as soon as I leave here.” Athos says, leaning down to brush his hand across the back of Arami’s neck. Still too warm, but not as bad as previously.

Aramis shakes his head, voice slurred with sleep.  “No doctor. Jus’ want to sleep.”

At that, Athos rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and sighs heavily at the burden of having a friend who is such a terrible patient. Athos is grateful, though, when he drifts off peacefully.

With a sigh, he seats himself in the previously abandoned chair at Aramis’s table, and tips himself backwards, closing his eyes.  Aramis’s condition does seem less urgent than it did earlier. Perhaps he’ll get some rest himself before he fetches the physician . . .


End file.
